“My pleasure.” He throws the liver treats my way. “You’re missing the point. The involvement of an actress wouldn’t hurt Mitchell nearly enough. That’s what makes you perfect for this.”
“I’ll keep saying it if I need to—I’m not interested in revenge.”
“A fact I find astounding after what he did to you.”
“I just want to move on.” I take out a couple of treats, shove the bag into one pocket of my damp scrubs and the treats into theother. “I’m sorry about your jacket,” I add, noting the smear from Bo’s paws. “I’ll take it to the dry cleaner.”
He eyes it impassively. “Dump it. It’s ruined.”
“It’s just a little mud,” I chide, but he dismisses the topic with a flick of his hand.
“This animal sanctuary—does Nora take only dogs? And sheep?”
“Cats. Dogs. Sheep,” I reply, glad the topic of conversation has turned. “All kinds of things.” As I make my way into the yard, Oliver follows, and the din starts up: low barks and high yips, the puppies excited for company. “She had a llama a few months ago that someone was keeping on the twelfth floor of a high rise.”
His expression, it’s like that won’t quite compute. I guess in his world people aren’t given to flights of fancy. Or mental illness.
“She found him a home on a farm in Kent, but it’s mostly dogs she gets.” Shooing Bo out of the way, I turn to the first kennel run and unlock the gate. “Sadly, a lot of them have been through some kind of trauma. Isn’t that right, Mouse?” The improbably named Mouse might be the result of a three-way between a lurcher, a Shetland pony, and a wolf. And right now, he’s all teeth and growl.
“Eve, I think—” Oliver holds out his hand, his mouth beginning to form a word that looks a lot likestop. I don’t, slipping quickly into the pen.
“It’s fine. It’s you he’s growling at. He doesn’t like men, thanks to his last owner. Me and Mouse are buddies, aren’t we, sweetie?” Thick gums cover his teeth as I slip a liver treat between them. His tongue lolls as he chews, and as I pat his head, I swear he gives me the doggy version of a goofy grin. “It’s not everyone you’ll let stick a thermometer up your tushy, is it?”
“You’re close friends, then?” I laugh at that one. “Nora pays you to do that?”
“No. Labor of love, remember?” My hands move over Mouse, my assessment thorough but brief. “He had a couple of broken ribs when he arrived. Some nasty cuts and bites, but everything is healing nicely. Next week you get your booster,” I baby talk, taking his face in my hands.
“He’s got a head like a battering ram.”
I make a show of covering Mouse’s ears. “Hush! You’ll hurt his feelings.”
“Are they all abandoned?” he asks as I slip out from the kennel, throwing Mouse another treat.
“Some are surrendered voluntarily: change of circumstances—homelessness, new babies and partners. Some come from the local pound, saved from euthanasia in the nick of time. Then there are the ones picked up on the street. They’re usually in a terrible mess. Fleas, worms, sores, infections, and matted coats.”
“Until you come along.”
“Not just me. There are a couple of us who pitch in, also groomers and other volunteers. Dogs need to be walked, their runs and kennels cleaned, and then there’s the training. Cats need socialization, and then there’s the admin.”
“The cats take care of admin? How efficient.”
I catch myself smiling at his silly joke. Sometimes, I just don’t know whether I’m on my ass or my elbow with him.
“Nora would love the cats to work for their keep,” I answer brusquely. “She hates dealing with paperwork.”
“And the aim is to find all these animals new homes?”
“The ultimate aim. With medical help and a little TLC, most of the animals are ready for a family pretty quickly. For others, it’s the damage we can’t see that stops them from being pets. Psychological damage that can’t always be healed, though we try, don’t we, Mr. Bojangles?” I bend to pat his head as he dances between us.
“He’s a very different-looking dog,” Oliver says, his gaze sweeping along the kennels full of terriers, hounds, and our myriad of mixed breeds.
“Bo here is a designer doggy. A labradoodle that has found himself here through no fault of his own.” If you discount his intelligence and his willful nature.
“And he hasn’t been easy to rehome?”
“He has, but he’s like a boomerang. He just keeps coming back.”
“I wonder why,” Oliver mutters, moving Bo’s nose from his crotch again.
